


Fëanor Sort of Finds Out But Not Really

by ThatFeanorian



Series: Everything Goes Right AU [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But we still love him, Chapter 1 is sfw, M/M, Russingon, Sarcasm, The feanor almost finds out about russingon fic no one needed but I wrote anyways, attempts at lying that go very badly, but we love him, family arguments, family time is the bestest time, feanor is trying so hard to be a good dad but is it really working?, he's also a dramamonster, innocent boys in love, maedhros and fingon are ahhhhh too cute, maedhros is an idiot, will update the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatFeanorian/pseuds/ThatFeanorian
Summary: “What has you running off at all hours of the day, then, Nelyafinwë Maitimo?” Fëanor’s voice is soft, almost gentle but Maitimo carefully interlocks his hands between his knees to stop them from shaking.“I was… dancing! With a few friends, that’s all.” Strictly speaking, Maedhros is not lying. He did indeed dance with Fingon, and Fingon is indeed his friend --perhaps a little bit more than that.The fic that no one wanted about awkward Russingon and Maedhros trying his best to hide his relationship from his father with a terrible success rate.
Relationships: Curufin | Curufinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: Everything Goes Right AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187414
Comments: 32
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

Maitimo is still flushed with excitement and the thrill of running when all too soon he arrives home, tumbling down the hill that leads to their house with Findekáno’s hand in his. He looks a mess and he knows it, clothes dirty, hair tangled and loose down his shoulders from Findekáno’s insistent pulling and snagging fingers the past few hours, his face red and sweaty. Already, even from outside the door, he can hear raised voices and Findekáno squeezes his hand in sympathy as he winces, entirely unprepared to return. 

“Same time tomorrow?” He asks softly, and Maitimo nods, pressing a light kiss to Findekáno’s knuckles.

“I’ll be waiting for you.” He promises, and Findekáno grins waving behind himself as he runs off towards the edge of the trees where he has tied his horse. Maitimo glances back towards the house and then, unable to contain himself, calls out, 

“Bye Finno!” Findekáno smiles back at him, replying,

“Make sure you fix your hair before anyone sees you, it’s an absolute mess!” Maitimo laughs despite himself, trying and failing to run a hand through it. He can already tell it’s going to take hours of untangling to right it, but --he thinks to himself as he watches Findekáno’s retreating back-- it was well worth the effort.

As Maitimo approaches the door he can hear the voices inside rising to a somewhat dangerous level and as he opens the door there is an explosion of sound as his father yells,

“Curufinwëwë Atarinkë Fëanároion!” Maitimo steps into the house, slipping down the hall and towards the stairs when out of the corner of his eye he sees motion. 

“Yes?” Curufinwë mumbles, but Fëanáro is no longer paying attention, his eyes focused solely on Maitimo who is pinned in place by the power of that gaze. 

“Nerdanel?” He asks softly (too softly), “Would you with our sons to help prepare for dinner? Perhaps in the gardens tonight?” As if sensing the tension, Nerdanel nods simply, and motions for Maitimo to follow with the rest of them, but Fëanáro puts out a hand, pressing lightly into Maitimo’s shoulder as he attempts to pass his father,

“No, Nelyafinwë. I want to speak to you.” Maitimo runs through the longest internal list of curses he can come up with, running a hand through his hair in a desperate last-ditch effort to at least look half presentable and says,

“What is it Atar?” Cursing again as his voice betrays him and brakes half-way through the sentences in a way it has not since he was Curufinwë’s age. 

“Come Nelyafinwë. My study.” It feels like the longest walk in the world to him, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. Maitimo hates being called ‘Nelyafinwë’, hates the reminder that his birth was used for nothing more than political cruelty, and hates the fact that there is a name he never wants Findekáno to call him. Still, Maitimo knows when it is a good time to argue with his father over trivial matters and so he keeps his mouth firmly shut. 

“Sit.” Fëanáro instructs him shortly, and Maitimo takes a seat silently, feeling very small as suddenly his father towers above him his eyes seeing straight through Maitimo’s skin to the secrets he has been hiding beneath it. This feeling does not lessen when Fëanáro rounds the desk and sits perfectly still his eyes bright and dangerous as they analyze him,

“What has you running off at all hours of the day, then, Nelyafinwë Maitimo?” Fëanáro’s voice is soft, almost gentle but Maitimo carefully interlocks his hands between his knees to stop them from shaking.

“I was… dancing! With a few friends, that’s all.” Strictly speaking, Maitimo is not lying. He did indeed dance with Findekáno, and Findekáno is indeed his friend --perhaps a little bit more than that. The only outright lie is the statement that he was with multiple others, and he prays that this is a small enough digression from the truth that his father will not notice it. Fëanáro regards him for a moment, a pensive look on his face before smiling,

“Dancing, you say? At this hour? Surely you can dance to your heart’s desire at the Gala?” Maitimo’s awkward smile is pinned in place and without thinking, he begins to speak,

“I… uh… felt a little nervous because I haven’t danced in a while, so I went to practice?” His father’s gaze is blank but his eyes are blazing bright, staring straight into Maitimo’s mind. He shifts uncomfortably, trying to escape the fire in those eyes, then flinches as Fëanáro reaches over, plucking a leaf out of his hair. A million curses fly through Maitimo’s mind along with twice that number of excuses, but all that escapes his mouth is an undignified squeak that appears in the air several octaves higher than Maitimo along can get his voice to travel. 

“I’m not stupid Nelyafinwë. Do you think me stupid?” Fëanáro leans back, twirling the leaf between two fingers as he once again fixes his eyes on Maitimo, who frantically shakes his head.

“Tell me, who are you seeing?” His tone is nonchalant but Maitimo flushes deep red, once again watching as words seem to fall from his lips without his knowing consent,

“No! No, Atar, Atar, of course, I don’t --What?” Panicking, Maitimo laughs frantically, “Seeing someone? I would never… seeing someone?”

“Aiya, Nelyafinwë,” He sounds stern and exasperated, “My firstborn, gallivanting off into the trees like some sort of feral beast. And he has the audacity to attempt to lie to me!” Maehdors does not want to imagine what his father’s face might look like if he knew the truth, but as soon as he thinks of it, the image is already forming behind his eyes. Maitimo’s hands tremble as he presses them deeper between his knees. 

“Atar! I have not been gallivanting, I --I swear to you I was just… just… “ He is grasping at straws and coming up with nothing, wishing desperately for a way to escape the room and the condemning weight of his father’s eyes. Anything would be better than this, he prays, and miraculously, behind him, the door slams open with a bang, emitting Macalaurë. 

Spinning around in his chair, Fëanáro releases Maitimo from his eyes and instead focusing them on Macalaurë who says loudly,

“Atar, Tyelko’s home,” In a dead panicked monotone.

“Wonderful,” Fëanáro barks, “Tell your mother. Did I not specifically request to speak to Nelyafinwë alone?” Macalaurë seems to shrink beneath his father’s anger,

“Leave us Macalaurë. I will not be interrupted again.” He waves Macalaurë away, but Maitimo is far past the threshold of desperate and now edging on hysterical as he replies,

“No, Atat I think maybeweshouldgoseewhatTyelkohas?” He curses himself again as Fëanáro’s eyes once again rest on him, now burning,

“You defy me, Nelyafinwë Maitimo?” He asks and the room goes deadly silent until a moment later Maitimo squeaks out a “no.”

“Tyelko… Tyelko has a message.” Macalaurë says in the same loud monotone voice, and Fëanáro stand abruptly, glaring at Macalaurë,

“You will leave us.” He says angrily, pointing with a sharp gesture at the door, but at that moment, Curufinwë appears in the doorway. 

Maitimo cannot imagine any way the situation could possibly get worse, yet when he turns to Macalaurë, his younger brother’s face has inexplicably relaxed into something resembling relief. Macalaurë opens his mouth to say something, but Fëanáro’s rage halts him in his tracks as their father explodes,

“When did my word become nothing to my sons?! Leave!” Macalaurë shrinks back again and Curufinwë’s eyes are damp and terrified. Maitimo knows he has to do something, this is the moment he has to give everything away for the sake of Macalaurë and Curufinwë.

“Atar I-” The words come out mumbled and barely understandable and Fëanáro pulls his chin up with surprising gentleness as he yells,

“SPEAK, Nelyafinwë.”

“I…” I know you’re going to hate this but please don’t be angry...I don’t know what you’re talking about… it was Finno, Atar, I love him.

So many answers and yet what is burning now within Fëanáro’s eyes is nothing compared to the utter hatred Maitimo would see if he told the truth. Maitimo is so, so afraid of Fëanáro’s hatred. He is trembling far more than he wants to admit and feels cold, his heart thinking in his throat. There can be no possible escape from his. He will be disowned and thrown out of the house, his dead body left to rot in the forest like the abandoned remains from Celegorm’s hunts. He is--

“A- Atar… Nelyo’s telling the truth… he… he told me.” Maitimo stares incredulously at Curufinwë: his quiet small brother who seems the most scared out of all of them and then looks up to his father, not daring to hope that this might save him. Curufinwë is Fëanáro’s favourite, that much has been obvious since the day he was born, and Fëanáro looks more frozen now than angry as he turns towards Macalaurë with a scowl etched into his features. Macalaurë takes half a step towards Curufinwë in order to hide behind him, which looks rather ridiculous considering Curufinwë is nearly half a foot shorter than his older brother.

“Is this the whole truth? Do you dare to lie to me as well, Kanafinwë?” Macalaurë flushes, looking anything but convincing as he responds,

“It’s true Atar, I- I promise.” Maitimo can feel tears in his eyes and tries to blink them away as Fëanáro lowers his head, hiding his face from view.

Poor Macalaurë, worse than even Maitimo when it comes to lying. Maitimo braces himself, preparing for the truth, reminding himself he has no choice.

“I see.” Fëanáro’s voice is soft and predatory, but he smiles as Maitimo’s stomach sinks. He regards the leaf he is still twirling between his fingers for a moment more before flicking it across the desk towards Maitimo.

“I hope you enjoyed your… dancing Nelyafinwë. I hope your friends were worth it. You are confined to the house for… as long as you need to be.” Maitimo is pale and trembling; he knows. He must know, and Findekáno is all that makes Maitimo happy some days when the pressure of being Nelyafinwë Maitimo becomes too much. 

Maitimo sinks backwards in his chair, trying very hard not to cry.

“We will be speaking further on this subject, Nelyafinwë. Do the three of you understand me?” Maitimo nods shakily and watches as Fëanáro sweeps out of the room, followed quickly by Curufinwë and Macalaurë, the latter of whom casts him one sad sympathetic look. Maitimo raises his hands to his face and isn’t surprised to find tear tracks there.

Ai, Finno, how will we see each other now?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy this messy probably incoherent follow up that had me sobbing for ten minutes for no reason, just soft cuddling and kisses and love with a minor undertone of foreshadowing.

Maedhros stares down the road watching the rest of his family disappear. He had (for once) been looking forward to his family gathering together for a gala, especially in the wake of what would have made ten days without Fingon’s company. Maedhros has never in all his life been quite so miserable as he has since the moment when his father almost discovered —did discover?— his relationship with Fingon. It has been far too close for comfort and to be separated from Fingon has been the worst punishment Maedhros has ever faced. 

Of course, there is no way Fëanor would know if Maedhros happened to disappear from the house for a few days during his absence, nor would he know if Maedhros coincidentally met Fingon during those few days and the two spent just a few hours together… but the truth is that Maedhros is far too afraid of his father and the consequences of such an action to ever attempt it. Still, there is nothing stopping him from dreaming of Fingon’s smiles and his warm calloused fingers lacing through Maedhros’s larger hands. 

Below him, the carriage finally disappears from view and Maedhros slumps down in his seat, preparing for another ten days of pure misery in a house so silent that Maedhros’s mind is playing tricks on him just to create sound. Letting out a long sigh, he stares out the window for a moment longer, watching the now empty road in front of the house and wishing more than anything that Fingon’s horse would appear before him. Finally, he pushes himself up and out of his seat, heading for his room and the stack of papers written in Fëanor’s messy writing for him to attempt to decipher and rewrite. 

It always falls to him to make sense of his father’s work, Fëanor’s far too messy documents are always created in the heat of discovery and so are more in the form of jotted notes out of order and the occasional messy sketch, and could never be published for the public if not for Maedhros. Still, Maedhros always worries that what he leaves out (the illegible scribbles and indecipherable drawings) were all that mattered in the first place and in his vast inadequacy he has discarded the only thoughts of his father’s mind that mattered to him. 

He takes the stack and begins carefully illuminating the notes on a separate page, copying carefully the exact phrasing where he can and adding delicate flourishes to the end of each word in handwriting the rest of Tirion knows only as Fëanor’s. Not Maedhros’s. 

Maedhros laughs bitterly to himself, stretching his hand briefly between pages, and looks down at his work. It is so ironic that Fëanor’s punishment is what has landed him here, looking through a neglected stack of work that will only serve to improve Fëanor’s reputation and will do nothing at all for him. And yet, what else would Maedhros possibly think of doing? He has no hobbies of his own —unless you count those secret stolen trysts with Fingon a hobby—, too much of his time always being occupied by the busyness that comes from living in a house with eight other people and taking care of his youngest brothers. Maedhros loves his job. He loves being the oldest and being able to care for the family he loves more than anything else, and yet… in moments like this, where he is free to contemplate his own life with no outside obligations, Maedhros comes up at a loss: who is he without his brothers? Who is he without the busyness that consumes his every day?

He is not sure. 

The minutes creep by far too slowly for Maedhros’s liking until finally unable to move his hands anymore due to the terrible cramping in his thumb, he flops backwards on his bed, staring up at the empty ceiling above him. He wants the noise. He wants his brothers. He wants Fingon more than anything. How can there still be ten days of emptiness and this crushing terrible quiet ahead of him? 

Maedhros can almost imagine Fingon’s voice, laughing and gleeful at having managed to climb the wall to Maedhros’s window. He can almost see his dark braids glinting with gold and his beautiful eyes —such a brilliant blue— smiling up at him from the doorway and—

Maedhros blinks, but the image does not fade. In fact, Fingon grins gleefully and waves from the doorway, bouncing into the room.

“Finno?” Maedhros asks incredulously, still not fully comprehending the fact that Fingon is there, really there. 

“Hey! Why haven’t you come to see me? I missed you!” Fingon asks, jumping on to the bed next to Maedhros and pouting playfully. Maedhros’s heart is thumping painfully hard in his chest as his mind rips itself in half, the two sides fighting with each other. He wants nothing more than to take Fingon into his arms and to never let go, to show his cousin just how much Maedhros has missed him, to kiss him until Fingon cannot breathe and he can’t remember how to speak unless it is Maedhros’s name, but he mustn’t. 

“Finno I-- you can’t be here!” His voice is panicked as Maedhros scrambles backwards and off the bed, terror flooding his body like ice. Fingon cannot stay, he has to leave. It does not matter that there are at least ten days until his family will return, somehow Fëanor will know and then Fingon will get into trouble and then… and then they will really never be able to see each other again. Fingon looks hurt as he sits up, responding,

“Why not? You’re home alone,” He pauses looking up at Maedhros as if trying to read his face, “Did I do something wrong? Is that why you didn’t come to see me?” 

“N-no! Atar found out that I was --that I am-- seeing someone, he doesn’t know it’s you but he… he said I have to stay in the house and I can’t see you, so you have to leave, Finno, if he finds out--”

“Woah, okay Maitimo, slow down for a moment.” Fingon has slid off the bed to take Maedhros’s hand and he squeezes it gently, tucking himself beneath Maedhros’s shoulder and pressing his cheek against Maedhros’s racing heart. 

“Hey, it’s fine. Just breath with me for a second.” Fingon feels real and solid against him, his voice soft in contrast to the all-encompassing fear screaming in his mind. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, pulling Fingon closer and wrapping both his arms around his cousin, “but Atar can’t find out.” 

“He’s not going to, don’t worry.” Of course, realistically Maedhros knows this is true, but Fingon is more important than anything else. He can not be put into danger.

“I promise you. Nelyo, no one even knows I’m gone. I just wanted to spend time with you.” Fingon looks up at him hopeful, his big blue eyes pleading, and Maedhros knows right away what his answer will be. He has never been able to say no to Fingon.

“I don’t want you to go,” he repeats and Fingon grins up at him, his face glowing with love and joy. Maedhros is suddenly very sure he made the right decision. 

“I know you don’t, Nelyo,” Fingon’s arms wrap around his neck, pulling Maedhros down for a kiss. His mouth is warm, the kiss gentle, comforting, welcoming, home. It is everything that Maedhros has missed and with it any worries he might have been harbouring about discovery and punishment seem to mysteriously disappear, leaving only his love for Fingon and a deep desperate desire to somehow demonstrate it. 

“Mmm,” Fingon hums into the kiss, his eyes fluttering open, “I missed you.” Maedhros feels himself smile as he says playfully,

“It was only two weeks Finno.” Fingon looks up, betrayed and collapses dramatically back into Maedhros’s arms, a hand draped over his forehead,

“Oh, two weeks? It has been an eternity without my strong, handsome, tall lover: Maitimo.” He looks up through his finger’s a smile dancing across his lips and Maedhros is suddenly   
dumbstruck, all the love inside him far too overwhelming for something like speech or movement to be an option. Fingon is… Fingon is perfection. Maedhros sinks backwards onto the bed, unable to stand on his legs any longer and pulls Fingon down with him, needing more than anything to be closer. Not close enough… nothing is close enough. Maedhros wants to melt into Fingon and just become part of his body for the rest of time, to never leave, to be so close that they cannot be physically separated and he never has to feel the stabbing pain in his heart of watching Fingon leave. 

Fingon nuzzles into his neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses down from the tip of his ear to his collar bone and Maedhros begins to cry, unable to contain all the love and joy he feels within himself, pulling Fingon tighter to himself and angry that it is not enough. 

“Nelyo... Nelyo, what’s wrong?” Fingon asks worriedly, kissing at his tears, “Are you okay? Was that too much? I--”

“I love you Finno.” Maedhros mumbles, hiding his face in Fingon’s chest as he speaks,

“I love you, I love you, I love you, and I’m going to love you forever.” Fingon slides his fingers into Maedhros’s hair, smoothing it out and kissing Maedhros firmly on the lips,

“Don’t cry, it hurts me. I want to make you happy.” Maedhros sniffs and gives Fingon a watery smile,

“I don’t think anyone could possibly make me happier. Don’t-- don’t ever leave me, okay?” Fingon hugs Maedhros so tightly he is afraid he might burst,

“I’m never going anywhere without you. I promise.” Maedhros is, finally, sure that this is enough, this whatever he has with Fingon, this love, this forever. Fingon is not leaving, and they are alone, just the two of them, together for an eternity within that single moment.


End file.
